


The First Irregular

by aristofranes



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Holmes before Watson, Origins of the Baker Street Irregulars, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, gratuitous bending of canon chronology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:47:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4185645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aristofranes/pseuds/aristofranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Holmes met Watson, he met a young pickpocket...</p><p>Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective to ... nobody in particular, actually, is struggling to make his mark on the world of criminal investigation. In fact, his career looks doomed to failure before it's even really begun. </p><p>Falling behind on his rent payments and forced to rely on his increasingly exasperated brother for handouts, Holmes takes on a seemingly pointless case involving a burglary in which nothing is stolen.</p><p>But, when his pocket is picked, Holmes spots a business opportunity that might just help to revitalise his flagging fortunes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (I don't for a second doubt that this has been done - and done better - before. But here we go, nonetheless...)

The boy did not appear afraid. Angry, yes, ready to do whatever was necessary to escape, but certainly not scared. He stared up, bristling defiantly, at the tall, thin man blocking the mouth of the alleyway.

Holmes paused. Having chased the boy halfway across Soho, he suddenly found himself uncertain of the best course of action. The lad was young - perhaps eight or nine years old, under all the dirt, and frighteningly small for his age. Bony ankles protruded from the bottom of his trouser legs. Hardly his usual sort of adversary.

He spread out his hands.

“Not armed,” he tried. 

“Lie.” 

Holmes smiled.

“Smart lad. Not intending to harm you, then, let us say. Look.” Holmes rested his stick against the wall and, slowly, so as not to provoke the child, removed his pistol from his coat pocket, laying it on the ground. Brass knuckledusters followed. He shrugged, catching the boy’s expression. “The metropolis can be such an … unpredictable place. One must prepare for every eventuality. Now.” Keeping his hands open in front of him, he advanced slowly. “You have some things of mine. Return them, and we will say nothing further about this business.”

“Don’t got nuffin’.”

“Lie”, sighed Holmes. “Let’s try again.” 

The boy shuffled sullenly and, with bad grace, thrust out his hand. A gold watch chain was clutched in his fist. Holmes stepped forward, bent down, stretched his hand out to him. The chain was dropped into his palm. 

“Thank you. And the rest.” 

The boy opened his mouth to argue but quickly thought better of it. From various pockets he produced a silver cigarette case, a silk handkerchief, a coin purse and a pocket lens. Holmes raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t even realised that the lens was missing.

“Quite the haul.” 

Holmes returned the items to their rightful places about his person, nodded to the boy. He had half-turned to leave but, in spite of himself, stopped.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. What is your name?”

The boy shrugged.

“You must have one? What are you known as?”

Another shrug. 

“If we are to go into business, I must know with whom I am dealing.” The boy stared. 

“What business?” 

“Knowledge.”

“Don’t got none, Mister.”

“But you could _get_ some for me.” 

“You want sumfin’ nicked?”

“No, not nicked. I want you to watch, to observe, and then to bring me news of the things you witness.” Holmes reached into his pocket. “This will serve as a deposit for your services.”

“A what?”

“I’ll give you this now, and more when you return with the news,” Holmes explained. He held aloft a shilling. The boy’s eyes widened.

“A bob? For ... watchin'?”

“And more when you return. _If_ you tell me your name.”

The boy licked his lips. 

“They said my name was Wiggins.”

“Wiggins. Good.” Holmes tossed the coin to Wiggins, who stowed it immediately in a pocket as though afraid he might change his mind. “Now; here is what you must do…”

The boy listened intently and, with the deal struck, Holmes took up his things and tipped his hat to Wiggins.

"Till Wednesday, then."

Holmes glanced back before he rounded the corner. Wiggins had disappeared. Oh yes, he thought. This would work very well indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Holmes may have found the solution to one of his problems, but there is still the small matter of paying the rent.

Holmes was midway through his morning pipe when Mrs Hudson bustled into the sitting room with the breakfast tray. He sat cross-legged in an armchair, his eyes closed, looking for all the world as though he were entirely unaware of her presence. Mrs Hudson set the tray down with a barely perceptible tut, then opened the window to waft the clouds of smoke out of the room.

"Mr Holmes."

There was no reply save another curl of rising smoke.

_"Mr Holmes."_

"Hmm?" He opened his eyes. "Ah, Mrs Hudson. Breakfast, is it? You needn't have bothered. I am at present engaged with matters far more pressing than the relative merits of devilled kidneys."

Mrs Hudson's eyes narrowed at the thought of a morning's work wasted. Again.

"The rent is due on Friday, Mr Holmes."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"I only mention it after last month--"

"Yes, yes."

"And the month before."

"Hmmm."

"You know that I don't like to bother your brother about this sort of thing--"

"You'll not have to this time, Mrs Hudson." Holmes flourished a letter at her. "I've already bothered him myself."

"I see." Mrs Hudson sighed. Now was obviously not the time to re-ignite the argument about renting out the room upstairs, where Mr Holmes currently stored ... well, junk, as far as she could make out. Empty bottles, scruffy old boots and hats, jars of muck and dirt. Taking in a second lodger would solve the problem of their awkward monthly exchanges, but he wouldn't hear of it - and so round and round they went.

"Was there anything else, Mrs Hudson? Good. Thank you _so_ much."

* * *

The Strangers' Room at the Diogenes Club was, predictably, empty when Holmes arrived. Not for long. Heavy footsteps in the corridor announced the arrival of his brother.

Mycroft Holmes peered critically at his younger brother, who was already lounging in an armchair and lighting a cigarette, apparently entirely at ease. He looked thinner than he recalled, though; curious, given the notoriously solid approach of his new landlady to the art of cooking.

"You are short of money again, Sherlock," he said at last.

"Now, what could possibly have given you that impression, dear Mycroft?"

"Your boots. They've been mended - again. Quite well, as it happens, but even so ... Your cigarette is of an unusually inferior quality for a self-confessed connoisseur such as yourself. And, of course, there is the fact that you have written to me. It would seem to be rather a clear-cut thing."

Holmes inspected the smouldering end of his cigarette thoughtfully.

"It's really not all that bad, as a matter of fact," he said.

"The cigarette, or your finances?"

"Oh, the cigarette, naturally. My financial situation is dire, as you so readily surmised."

Mycroft sighed deeply and lowered himself into an armchair opposite his brother.

"My dear boy, you simply cannot carry on in this haphazard manner."

"Indeed not. Which is why I've taken on a new business partner. I really think that it will give the whole enterprise a brand new lease of life."

"A business partner?" Mycroft was astonished. "Who might that be, pray?"

"A street urchin called Wiggins."

Mycroft removed his monocle, polished it and replaced it carefully before replying.

"If anyone else had ventured such a statement, I would presume it to be a joke."

"No joke. He picked my pocket and I paid him a shilling."

Mycroft shook his head.

"That damned cocaine has finally done away with the remainder of your good sense," he said. "I always feared that it might."

"Not in the least. Haven't touched the stuff for weeks."

"Haven't been able to afford it, you mean?"

At least his brother had the decency to look a little ashamed, noted Mycroft with some small satisfaction. It was an act, he realised - of course - but a welcome attempt nonetheless.

"Sherlock," he tried. "Perhaps it's time to give this ... detective business a rest. You've had - what, two cases in the past twelve months? And then you turn away perfectly good work when it finally _does_ come your way--"

"Missing cats and stolen handbags? Pah! Think of my reputation!"

"What reputation?" snapped Mycroft. "Nobody knows the first thing about you!"

"Is this brotherly advice?" asked Holmes coldly. Mycroft took a deep breath.

"Brotherly concern. My dear boy, I don't doubt your talents for a moment. But you can hardly call yourself a detective if you never have a case." He paused. "You know, there's some work available in my department - a trifling thing, really, secretarial, but--"

"Are you trying to _hire_ me, Mycroft?" Holmes looked amused. "Well, well. Nepotism is a fine thing."

"I can hardly see why you would consider that a more demeaning prospect than accepting handouts."

"Handouts? No, no. This is an _investment_ , Mycroft - an investment in my soon-to-be thriving career. You'll see." Holmes stubbed out the remainder of his horrible cigarette and flipped open his case for another - empty. It was pointless to hope that Mycroft hadn't noticed; wordlessly, his brother passed him his own case of considerably superior cigarettes. Holmes lit up, savouring tobacco that didn't taste like sawdust.

"An investment," murmured Mycroft. "I would expect to see some returns soon."

"Of course."

Mycroft considered this.

"Very well. I will make arrangements with Mrs Hiddles--"

"Hudson."

"Yes, yes, Huggins, about the rent."

"Thank you. Oh - and I shall require a little extra. For Wiggins' expenses," said Holmes hopefully.

"I shall settle the rent. You can settle the matter of your urchin."

The interview was at a close. Excessive talk always seemed to exhaust Mycroft. He heaved himself back to his feet and nodded to his brother.

"Good day, Sherlock."

"And to you, Mycroft." The older man turned to leave. "Oh, and - Mycroft? It might interest you to know that I _do_ have a case. A rather neat little problem. It seems that I may use the title of 'detective' after all. Good day."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've messed about with the chronology a bit, because of course Holmes should still be living in Montague Street ... but am fairly unrepentant because moving him to Baker Street means Mrs Hudson!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are shady goings-on at a London university, and an even shadier parade of suspects...

The case in question had not started promisingly.

On that morning, four days previously, Mrs Hudson had shown a client up to the sitting room at Baker Street. Holmes had noted with some satisfaction that after just a few months his landlady was already settling in well to her role as his official herald of potential cases, bringing just the right amount of pomp and circumstance to the occasion. It was a vast improvement on the situation at his previous residence in Montague Street; his former landlord had been incurably lazy and on more than one occasion Holmes had found himself sprinting down the road in a most undignified fashion after a client who had believed that he was not at home when their knock went unheeded.

"Professor Busick Marthorpe," she announced portentously.

”Thank you, Mrs Hudson - Professor, won’t you take a seat?”

Professor Marthorpe was an elderly man, with a shock of unruly, bright white hair brushed somewhat ineffectually back from his face. Tufty white eyebrows gave him a rather severe appearance that was quite at odds with his genial nature.

”It is a small matter really,” he began. “Certainly nothing to bother the police about. I am here regarding a colleague of mine - to say that I am here on his behalf is too strong, for the poor man has no idea that I am here. The whole business has quite unsettled him, but he wishes to cause no undue fuss to the department.”

”Forgive me, Professor,” Holmes interjected with a wave of his hand. “But perhaps it would be simpler for you to begin with the facts of your case. Tell me about this, ah, small matter of your colleague’s.”

”Of course - I am getting ahead of myself. I have taught for some years now in the Medical Department of King’s College. My young colleague - Dr. Mathews - teaches in the field of anatomy. Three days ago, Dr. Mathews’ office was broken into. He was, as I have mentioned, most distressed by the event, but insisted that the police were not to be involved.”

“What was stolen?”

”That’s just it, Mr Holmes. Nothing was stolen.”

”Nothing?” Holmes repeated.

”Nothing at all! Oh, there was a great deal of mess, the door had been forced clean off its hinges and the place had been thoroughly turned over, but all of Mathews’ personal effects and papers are accounted for.”

Holmes sat back, disappointed.

”A student prank, nothing more. I could give you seven separate examples of similar behaviour exhibited by students at my own college in--”

”Very likely, very likely - but all the same, I would much prefer that the matter was looked into. It would put my mind at ease.”

Holmes sighed. The matter seemed hardly worth any consideration at all - but then again, neither did anything else that had crossed his threshold of late.

”Very well, Professor.”

* * *

The bell of St Mary-Le-Strand was sounding noon when Holmes arrived at King's College later that day. The Strand was a tangle of coaches and omnibuses, and he was forced to dart between two cabs in order to cross and pass through the narrow archway directly beside Somerset House that led to the college.

A surly looking porter lurking in the entrance hall indicated the direction of the Medical Department. Holmes took the stairs two at a time; a few students idly watched him as he swept past the chapel - a burst of organ music from behind its doors accompanied his progress - along corridors and up stairs. Professor Marthorpe was waiting for him and greeted him warmly.

"Mr Holmes - this way, please..."

Dr. Mathews' office was at the end of yet another wood-panelled corridor. Before they had quite reached the door, however, there was a clatter of footsteps behind them.

"Professor - I must - must protest..."

Their new companion was in his forties, clean shaven, wide-eyed and considerably out of breath.

"Ah, Dr. Mathews - this is Mr Holmes. He's here to look into that little ... unpleasantness on Tuesday."

"I know why he's here!" gasped Mathews. "And I tell you that there is no need for it. It was a student prank, nothing more. Nothing was taken, no lasting damage caused. Professor, there is no need to fritter away the Department's finances on this matter. Mr Holmes - I am sorry to say that you have had a wasted journey."

"The briefest inspection your office is all that is necessary, Dr. Mathews," said Holmes quietly. "I assure you that I will not allow any, ah, frittering of finances."

"There, you see, Mathews? Nothing to worry about. Open the door, there's a good chap."

Mathews looked defeated. He fumbled around in his coat pocket for a moment, unlocked the door and gestured Holmes inside, clearly unhappy. Holmes nodded to him and stepped inside.

He sighed.

"Gentlemen, this office has been cleared up."

"Well, of course it has, I could hardly be expected to work in the condition it was left in!" scoffed Mathews.

"Anything I could have hoped to usefully learn from this room has undoubtedly been swept away," muttered Holmes sourly. "Gentlemen, I--" 

In an instant, Holmes was across the room, his nose barely an inch from the surface of Mathew’s desk. The two academics shared a puzzled glance.

"Dr Mathews - you say nothing was taken in the break-in?"

"That is correct. Everything is accounted for."

"Excellent, excellent. And ... in the first break-in?"

"I - I beg your pardon?" Mathews stammered.

"The first break-in. The break-in that happened - let me see, yes - three weeks ago. Four, perhaps. It all depends on the zeal of your cleaning staff." He gestured at Mathews' desk, the surface of which was marred by two small, thin puncture marks. "This mark was made some time ago; you note how the polish has built up in it? But _this mark_ is new."

Professor Marthorpe looked aghast.

"Is this true, Mathews?"

"I - I cannot deny it, sir," replied Mathews, though it seemed to cause him great pain to do so. 

”The precise date of this occurrence?”

asked Holmes, straightening up.

”20th May.”

”Four weeks ago,” noted Holmes, pleased.

"Good God, man, why didn't you mention this before?" spluttered Professor Marthorpe.

"It - it was nothing. Jenkins, the porter, discovered that his keys had been stolen. I returned to my office that afternoon and found the door ajar. But nothing was missing, no damage had been done. I arranged for the locks to be changed and thought no more of it."

"Even when, four weeks later, that same door is forced open, your office ransacked and a second scalpel is embedded in your writing desk?" asked Holmes, raising an eyebrow. "It was a scalpel, was it not?"

Mathews nodded silently.

"Yes, the marks are quite distinctive," said Holmes. “Now, Dr. Mathews … is there anything else you may have neglected to tell me?”

”Nothing, Mr. Holmes. You now know as much - or as little - as I do.”

”In that case,” replied Holmes, rubbing his hands together, “I believe it’s high time that I spoke to your students.”

”Yes, of course, one moment please,” said Professor Marthorpe, leaning out of the door and calling down the corridor, “Jenkins! Would you please show Mr Holmes to the lecture theatre?”

The surly-faced porter who had greeted Holmes on his arrival at the college shuffled into view. Apparently deeply unimpressed with the task he had been given, he gestured that Holmes should follow him. Holmes nodded to Marthorpe and Mathews and trotted after the porter, who had already begun making his way back down the corridor.

”Mr. Jenkins, is it?” said Holmes, just about catching him up. The man was about as tall as himself, though heavy-set, and walked with long, determined strides. Cauliflower ears and a nose that had been broken at least twice indicated a former life as a boxer - or perhaps a brawler.

Holmes received a grunt in reply.

”A bad business, eh? It must have been a great shock to you when you realised your keys had been stolen that first time...”

The tops of Jenkins’ battered ears turned visibly red. He stopped abruptly and wheeled around to face Holmes.

”Told you about that, did he? Well, if you’re wondering - I was in the pub when it happened. The break in. Break ins. The Lyceum Tavern, across the Strand. A dozen blokes could tell you they’d seen me.”

”I’m sure they could,” replied Holmes smoothly. The man had already been in the pub that day, judging by the smell of him. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to do such a thing?”

Jenkins relaxed slightly, seemingly satisfied that Holmes presented no threat to his liberty.

”Students,” he shrugged. “They’ve got little enough respect for the Doctor. Could’ve been any of them. Well, you’ll see for yourself, soon enough.”

The students, for their part, more or less lived up to Jenkins’ assessment. Their reactions to Holmes’ questions ranged from uninterested to outright amused, and they were almost unanimously ambivalent in their descriptions of Dr. Mathews. Only one student, a handsome, curly haired, serious-looking fellow, showed any real concern.

”Well, I mean … he is something of a duffer, but it seems unthinkable that someone would do something like this without any reason!”

”Quite so,” said Holmes. “Mr…?”

”Bradwick, Mr. Holmes. Percy Bradwick.”

”Mr Bradwick, can you think of anyone who might have such a reason?”

”None of us know all that much about Mathews, really. Quiet sort of chap. Hardly the type you’d expect someone to hold a grudge against. No, I rather doubt that any of us could tell you all that much about him. You might fare better at his club, though. The Avicenna Club. It’s just off Harley Street.”

”You are a member there yourself?”

”Oh, no - I don’t qualify for membership. Not yet, any road. Got to be a fully-fledged man of medicine, you see.”

”I do see. Thank you, Mr. Bradwick; you have been _most_ informative.”

* * *

The Avicenna Club was empty when Holmes arrived later that afternoon, save for a little man behind the bar, polishing glasses until they gleamed almost as brightly as his shiny bald head.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I am a detective--"

"Ah, splendid, splendid! Please, come through to my office..."

Holmes followed the little man, feeling slightly wrong-footed. People were not usually so pleased to see him. 

“Sit down, sit down…”

"Mr, ah..?"

"Keppell, Mr Holmes - I am the general manager of this establishment. I must say, I'm very pleased to see you. We've tried everything, but to no avail--"

"Mr Keppell, I'm afraid you have the advantage of me,” interrupted Holmes. “To what, exactly, are you referring?"

Mr Keppell looked crestfallen.

"You're not here about the advertisement?" the manager opened his desk drawer and pulled out a small scare of paper clipped from a newspaper.

__**WANTED**  
A reward is offered for any information  
which may lead to the discovery  
of Dr Bertram Cruttenden  
Last seen leaving the Avicenna Club 13th May  
28 years of age, dark hair…

"The police have quite given up the search, I'm afraid," sighed Mr Keppell as Holmes read. "There's been no sign of him whatsoever since that night."

"Why don’t you tell me what happened?"

"Well ... there’s not all that much to tell, really. Dr Cruttenden spent the evening playing cards, left as usual at around 11pm, and was never seen again. The whole thing is completely bizarre, there’s not a single thing to account for it. Except…”

“Except?”

Mr Keppell looked uncomfortable. 

“There … there was a suggestion that Dr Cruttenden … didn’t exactly play by the rules, if you catch my drift.”

“He cheated?”

“Apparently so. We may never know for certain.”

”And, like a good citizen, upon his disappearance you instigated a search for him,” said Holmes.

“I must admit, Mr Holmes, that I am not motivated merely by goodwill.”

“He left some debts?”

“Considerable debts, sir.”

“Hmm. Not a very proficient card cheat, then.” 

“No, no I suppose not. I hadn’t thought of it like that, I must admit.”

Holmes scratched his chin thoughtfully. 

“I’d be very happy to take a look into the matter for you, Mr Keppell,” he said. “I shall see if I can shed any light on the matter.”

“Thank you, Mr Holmes--”

“There is just one small thing - who did Dr Cruttenden play on the night he disappeared?”

“Oh, let me see … that would have been … Dr Price, er … Dr Phelps … oh, and Dr Mathews.”

“I see. Had Dr Cruttenden won a particularly large amount that evening?”

“I shouldn’t say so. They never played for high stakes and, in any case it sounds, to me as though things fell quite evenly; but Dr Mathews was quite insistent that something was amiss.”

“Indeed.” Holmes stood up suddenly and turned to leave. “Thank you so much, Mr Keppell, you’ve been most helpful.”

“But - what was it you had wanted to ask me, Mr Holmes?”

Holmes stopped in the doorway.

“You’ve already told me everything I’d hoped for, Mr Keppell. Good day.”

Things were beginning to shape up nicely. A burglary with nothing stolen, and an inept cards cheat. And Mathews, somehow, in the middle of it all. A pretty little problem. 

* * *

All of which led, in a roundabout sort of a way, to Wiggins finding himself two days later, shilling in pocket, loitering in the alley between two houses on a street in Camberwell on an unseasonably wet June night. Ordinarily, he would not have thought twice about calling the whole thing off and slinking somewhere more-or-less warm and dry, but this was hardly an ordinary sort of night. That bloke, that Mister Holmes, he could see right into your head. It gave him the willies.

Mister Holmes had said he was a detective, which had surprised Wiggins. He didn’t run like a copper. Didn’t talk like one, either. He’d looked pleased when Wiggins had told him that. He’d tried to explain exactly what it was he did, something about consulting and science and de-deucing, whatever that was, and being the only one, but it had mostly gone over Wiggins’ head. This he knew for certain: the bloke had promised him another bob if he turned up at his digs in the morning with some news about the cove across the street. It was the easiest money he’d come by in a while, and he wasn’t about to pass up on the opportunity.

Wiggins hunched his shoulders against the rain, watching the front door of number 53 Grove Lane. 

And that was when the big bloke showed up.

Ugly, he was. Built like a brick house. And not happy, not one bit. Wiggins edged closer as the big bloke hammered on the door.

It was opened by a cove who looked like a child in comparison; a weedy little thing - Wiggins would have wasted no second thought over him before picking his pocket. He didn’t look none too happy, neither, on seeing who was at his door.

Snatches of conversation drifted across to him.

”... Gone too far. He must be stopped,” said Weedy Cove.

”I’ll have nothing more to do with this--” began Big Bloke.

”You’ve as much to lose as I - in fact, I’ll see to it that you’ve more to lose, d’you understand me?”

The Big Bloke looked like he understood, alright.

”What about that detective, that Holmes - what do you--”

”He knows nothing,” snapped Weedy Cove. “Just some hack that old fool dug up. He is of no concern.”

”What’re you going to do?”

”Not here. I’ll be in touch. But don’t ever come here again.”

And that looked to be that. The door was snapped shut; the Big Bloke stood facing it for a moment, his fists clenched like he might knock it clean off its hinges - but then he turned and stormed away, his huge boots sending up great plumes of spray from the pavement.

Wiggins’ first thought was to follow suit, head homewards with a good night’s work surely done. His second thought was of Mister Holmes, with his eyes that went right through to the truth in your mind. All night, he’d said. Watch all night. Wiggins sighed. He didn't want to be de-deuced.

He settled down for a long, wet night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A breakfast, a briefing, and a battle of wits.

Holmes didn’t hear the doorbell when it rang at a quarter past nine the following morning, but he _did_ hear the indignant shriek of Mrs Hudson and the subsequent clatter as she chased the intruder up the stairs.

He opened the door of his sitting room to reveal his landlady gripping a ferociously struggling Wiggins by the back of his shirt. 

“Gerreroff me! Mister ‘Omes, gerreroff me!”

“Ah, Wiggins! Excellent. I see you’ve already made the acquaintance of Mrs Hudson.”

Mrs Hudson looked aghast. 

“You know this … this … _individual_ , Mr. Holmes?”

“Oh, how remiss of me - Mrs Hudson, meet my associate, Wiggins.”

Wiggins wrenched himself free of Mrs Hudson’s astonished grasp and brushed himself down. He glared up at her.

“ _Toldja._ Toldja I knew ‘im, din’t I? Mad old b--”

“ _Wiggins,_ ” interrupted Holmes, more than a little sharply, “Meet Mrs Hudson, and you’ll do well to mind your manners when you speak to her.”

”Sorry, Mister ‘Omes.” Holmes raised an eyebrow. “Sorry, Missis ‘Udson.”

”Good. You will also return those spoons you just pocketed.”

Wiggins sighed sulkily and thrust out a fistful of silver spoons. Mrs Hudson retrieved them fastidiously. Judging by her expression, it would be some time before she considered them clean enough to return to service.

“Now, Wiggins and I have matters of business to discuss,” said Holmes, beckoning the boy in. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

“Mr Holmes, I must protest--”

Holmes swung the door shut before his landlady could form her argument.

Wiggins found himself in the oddest room he’d ever seen. Heaps of paper seemed to cover every available surface - including the chairs, which Holmes resolved simply by scooping up the offending piles and dropping them on the floor, sending several other stacks flying. Something was bubbling in a glass bottle on a bench covered with bits of strange apparatus. Knick-knacks hung from the walls, a violin lay haphazardly on the edge of a windowsill, and the whole place was pervaded by a strong smell of tobacco smoke that made his nose wrinkle involuntarily.

There was also, Wiggins noted hungrily, a table laid for an apparently forgotten breakfast.

Holmes followed his gaze.

“I’m afraid it will be rather cold by now, but if you’d like--”

He didn’t bother to finish his sentence. In an instant, Wiggins has shot across the room and commenced shovelling food into his mouth at an alarming speed, as if afraid that Holmes might change his mind.

The kedgeree never stood a chance.

Holmes poured himself a cup of coffee and waited for the chaos to die down.

“Remember to breathe, Wiggins,” he remarked as the boy wolfed down a third consecutive slice of toast, crumbs flying everywhere.

“Mmph mmph mmphmph mph mph mmph?” replied Wiggins, gesturing at a boiled egg. Holmes shrugged.

“By all means.” Down that went too.

With the breakfast now thoroughly demolished, Wiggins sat back and belched appreciatively.

“What you got all this food for, if yer not gonna eat it?” he asked.

“Mrs Hudson seems to think it important. I never eat when I am engaged on a case unless it is absolutely essential.”

“Why not?” Wiggins looked horrified.

“To expend energy on digestion is to waste energy. This keeps my senses sharp.”

Wiggins snorted.

“Thass rubbish. You can’t fink if yer hungry. Even I could tell yer that.”

Holmes was about to reply, but Wiggins was already on his feet, examining the room.

“Woss this?” he asked, picking up a bottle of clear liquid at random from the chemical bench. 

“ _That_ ,” said Holmes, swooping down to pluck it back from his grasp. “Is sulphuric acid. Otherwise known, rather aptly, as oil of vitriol. I would advise you to not wave it around like that.”

“Dangerous, is it?” asked Wiggins.

“Only if you consider permanent blindness and severe burns to be an undesirable state of affairs.”

Wiggins took in the chemical stains and scars on Holmes’ hands, and a large patch of charred woodwork on the bench.

“Right you are.”

Wiggins jerked a grimy thumb at the row of carefully-labelled jars currently arranged on Holmes’ hearth.

“Woss all that for, then? Is that dangerous too?”

“That, Wiggins, is the very future of scientific deduction. I am at present engaged in compiling a catalogue of the varying types of soil found at different locations across the city. I am pioneering a new method that I hope will--”

Holmes faltered in the face of Wiggins’ blank expression.

“I’m … making a list that shows how the soil from one part of the city differs from that of another.” 

Wiggins was far from impressed.

“You’re makin’ a list of dirt?”

“You can learn a great deal from dirt,” replied Holmes, somewhat affronted.

Wiggins perked up.

“I’ve got a lot of dirt,” he said, pointing at his filthy garments. “You could ‘ave summov mine, if you wanted.”

“Wiggins, your dirt is worthy of a catalogue all of its own,” replied Holmes. Wiggins looked delighted. Holmes crouched and pointed out one distinct stain out of the many on the boy’s left trouser leg. “That one, however … tell me, Wiggins, can you recall where you collected that particular ... specimen?”

Wiggins peered down.

“Oh, yeah - there was this ‘orse what’d done ‘is business, only I di’nt notice until--”

Holmes recoiled.

“Ah - yes, thank you, Wiggins--”

“--but I don’t think ‘e was very well, because ‘e--”

“--that will--”

“--an’ then I stepped in it.”

“--do.”

Holmes rubbed his brow. It was going to be a long morning.

“Shall we get back to the matter in hand?” he asked. “What did you learn from your expedition last night?”

Wiggins puffed out his chest.

“Mister ‘Omes, I have been complainin’ a catterlog of my own.”

“Compiling,” smiled Holmes.

“Compilin’ a catterlog of my own, of all the things what I seen.”

Holmes took a seat and lit his pipe as Wiggins related, with barely a pause for breath, the events of the previous night, about how the Big Bloke had turned up, and how he’d acted like he was downright scared of the Weedy Cove…

Holmes listened in silence, tapping his pipe against his teeth, and did not speak for some time after Wiggins had wrapped up his tale. The boy fidgeted uncertainly.

”Did I do alright, Mister ‘Omes?” he asked at last. His question seemed to bring Holmes back out of some reverie.

”Hmm? Oh, you have carried out your duty commendably, Wiggins. Well done.” He stood up suddenly, crossed the room, opened the door and leant out into the corridor. “ _Mrs Hudson!_ ”

“There’s no need to shout, I’m just here,” replied Mrs Hudson crossly, ascending the staircase with an armful of freshly laundered clothes.

“We will be departing shortly. Do you think that you might furnish us with some of your excellent sandwiches?”

“ _Sandwi--_ ”

“Thank you. Oh, and Wiggins, thank Mrs Hudson for the breakfast.”

“Fanks, Missis ‘Udson.”

Mrs Hudson was beginning to turn a rather delicate shade of purple. 

“Are you _giving away my food now_?”

“Mrs Hudson, your charity is indeed boundless. Thank you ever so much.”

Holmes snapped the door shut.

”Now, we are yet to resolve the matter of your pay, Wiggins,” he said, pulling a coin from his pocket. He paused. “It rained last night, did it not?”

”Certainly did, Mister ‘Omes.”

Holmes produced another coin.

”It seems that you went above and beyond, Wiggins,” he said. “Two shillings, then, for last night - and there’s another in it for you if you’ll accompany me today.”

”Alright. Where’re we goin’?”

”To Camberwell; there are a few things that I would like to learn about our friend Dr. Mathews. We may need to be somewhat unconventional in our approach, but I feel certain that you will rise admirably to the occasion, Wiggins. But first, we must go to Pall Mall.”

There was a rap at the door and Mrs Hudson entered, holding a bulging packet of sandwiches.

“I’ve made you a few extra,” she said somewhat stiffly, passing them to Holmes in a manner that suggested she would much rather beat him about the head with them. Her good nature had seemingly only just edged out her anger with him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

Mrs Hudson nodded.

“Yes, well. I hardly suppose they’re for you, and he looks like he could use them. Oh, and Mr. Holmes?” she said, pausing at the door. “He’s only a child. If he gets into any trouble on your account, you’ll have me to answer to.”

“There is no need for concern, Mrs Hudson--”

“And if _he_ gets _you_ into any trouble, well, you’ve only yourself to blame.”

* * *

Mycroft Holmes had been dozing peacefully behind a copy of the morning’s paper for some time when he was tapped discreetly on the shoulder by one of the faithful old retainers who glided silently about the Diogenes as though on rollers.

“Mr Holmes, sir? I do apologise for the disturbance. Your brother is outside, sir.”

“Outside?” repeated Mycroft, trying to stretch the sleep out of his legs. “What on earth is he doing outside? Send him on up, Barnes. I’ll meet him in the Strangers’ Room--”

“Sir - he is at the tradesman’s entrance.”

“The ..?”

“Yes, sir. There was some sort of misunderstanding with Pegden at the main entrance, it would appear. I did, ah, clarify the situation, but your brother is now quite refusing to use any other door than the tradesman’s door. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, sir.”

“The tradesman’s entrance? What sort of misunderstanding?”

“It was his companion to whom Pegden took such offence, sir.”

“His companion? I - oh, for pity’s sake…”

Mycroft squeezed his way downstairs, the staff parting before him like waves around a particularly grumpy iceberg. He threw open the tradesman’s door, which lead to a small grey courtyard, to the side of which, perched on a number of empty crates, his younger brother sat calmly smoking another of his infuriatingly bad cigarettes. A filthy child of indeterminate age was kicking a piece of stone around, apparently quite at home.

“Sherlock, what is the meaning of this - this scene? I have never been so embarrassed in all my years at the Diogenes--”

Ah, brother Mycroft, how good of you to join us. Mycroft, this is my associate Wiggins. Say how do you do, Wiggins.”

“Owjda-do-Wiggins.”

Holmes shrugged.

“It’s a work in progress, I’ll grant you.”

Mycroft tried and failed to rearrange his features into something approaching an expression of calm. 

“My dear boy, this is utterly ridiculous,” he managed.

“On the contrary,” replied Holmes, leaping down from his perch. “Wiggins has already proved himself to be of great use to me.”

“But why him, Sherlock? The boy appears entirely unremarkable.”

“‘E’s got very fine ‘earin’, though,” said Wiggins sourly.

“For two reasons, principally,” said Holmes with a small smile. “First: you will recall that it is a particular hobby of mine to make a study of the methods of our city’s pickpockets and thieves. I do not flatter myself when I say that I am something of an expert on the topic.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft looked eminently disapproving. “I remember. You never did return my tie-pin, incidentally.”

“When young Wiggins and I met,” continued Holmes, ignoring his brother, “he succeeded - briefly - in relieving me of four of my possessions. I had only been aware of three items.”

Mycroft waved a hand impatiently.

“So the boy is an adept pickpocket. The second reason had better be far more compelling and a little less likely to attract undue attention from the police, Sherlock.”

“Oh, it’s positively irresistible, Mycroft. Take a look at him. Now - beyond that fact that he is perhaps eight or nine years old, that he has been living by his wits for most of those years, that he is somewhat undernourished but has over the course of this morning consumed one of Mrs Hudson’s finest breakfasts, a round of cheese sandwiches, an entire pork pie and two-thirds of a Bakewell tart - which, upon reflection, Wiggins, was clearly intended for the guests Mrs Hudson is expecting this afternoon and not, as you so colourfully put it, ‘fair game’ - aside from these facts, Mycroft, what can you tell me about this boy?”

Mycroft turned a critical eye to Wiggins.

“Well, I - clearly, he…” Mycroft trailed off. Holmes spread his hands in a small gesture of a quiet victory.

“You see? He is nearly impossible to read. And that, dear brother, is precisely what makes him invaluable.”

There was a momentary impasse as the brothers stared at eachother. Wiggins watch the two peculiar men, transfixed. He understood that there was some sort of invisible battle taking place, even if he couldn’t understand the rules. It seemed as though it all came down to which of them blinked first…

“I can’t say that I approve of this, Sherlock,” said Mycroft at last.

“I hardly see why. There are children employed in far less worthy professions than my own. But, Mycroft - no doubt you are exceedingly busy at present. I shall be brief. I did not come here simply so that you could meet Wiggins. I confess that I need your help.”

“What is it this time?” Mycroft sighed.

“I require a plumber’s toolkit.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“You surely haven’t taken my advice to find a new career to heart?”

“Far from it, far from it - I require it to further my current calling.”

“Well, I certainly do not have such a thing.”

“No, but I happen to recall that the general manager of the Lyceum Theatre owes you a favour after that business with the diplomats in the royal box. And his prop collection is prodigious.”

Mycroft sagged, defeated.

“I will make some enquiries.”

“Thank you. Come along, Wiggins. Good afternoon to you, Mycroft.”


End file.
